


Notes from the War Table

by bluebottle762



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Canon Compliant, Multi, multiple OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebottle762/pseuds/bluebottle762
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles of 400 words or more. Part of a daily writing exercise.<br/>Will contain: Streams of consciousness, various OCs (Reach of the Inquisition), unedited oddness, occasional smut, AUs, and an assortment of Inquisitors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Renata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squishymage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishymage/gifts).



> Cullen on the Inquisitor.  
> 539 words

She is the Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition, and her name is Renata Trevelyan.

Half of Thedas knows her name by now, both the Inquisition and the Chantry have made sure of that. They know her as a symbol, a shining light to follow in the hopes of finding calm within the chaos—that her shadow might provide them some protection. They use her as a rallying point, more a portrait than a person.

It’s strange to realise that they will never really know her, not like Cullen does. They’ll never see her tousled, travel worn and tired, her hair slipping loose in wispy tendrils, and her boots caked in mud. They’ll never see her, half dressed and dishevelled as she sits at her desk, reading through the week’s reports well into the night, trying to piece together what she’s missed and where it leads as she frets herself to sickness. Never, too, will they see her as she laughs, all loose hair and open shirt as she wins another round of Wicked Grace, despite Dorian’s best cheating. In short, they’ll never see her as a person. Always the Inquisitor, never _Rena_.

Maker, to most of them she doesn’t have so much as a face, at best pictured as some dark Andraste, straight nosed and oval faced. The tan of her skin, the wave of her hair, the soft shape of her jaw—her eyes, mischievous, round, and topaz-brown—none of it will reach them. Some things, he remembers, only he sees. How she folds round the middle when she’s curled up on her side, the way her thighs look wrapped tight around his hips— the soft curve of her breasts and how they bounce when they make love, how her skin glows through a sheen of perspiration after she’s spent and done and happy. He’s not the first, he knows, but at present, only he has the right to more than memory.

He knows his face must show his train of thought, too pale to hide even a minor blush, as Lelianna shoots him a knowing little look from across the table as Rena continues on, oblivious, conversing in rapid Antivan with Josephine. Her accent flows and forms near-perfectly, despite a life spent anchored down in Ostwick, still bound to the circle, however loose the tie.

She’s a noble and a mage, not someone Cullen ever thought might share his bed, let alone anything else. And yet, in her own words, she loves him. A Failed Ferelden Templar with a heart full of holes, worn thin by too many years carrying a bottle full of pain, cold and heavy without a word to ease it. She loves him, and the world may never know that their portrait Inquisitor could ever be so human as to need another living being, imperfect, fixed and battered. Maybe the thought of the Herald of Andraste being quite so flesh and blood would act as nothing more than an unwelcome reminder that change is only ever brought about by blood and sweat and tears. More than anyone, Cullen knows, in that regard Renata has more than paid her dues.

It’s impossible, but he wishes now that more of them could know.


	2. Viggo -  A Rule of Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the Main 6 from Reach of the Inquisition. Involves Orlesian politics and sex.  
> 403 words

“Any word on where Ariel’s allegiances lie?” Sighing deeply through his nose, Viggo pressed an idle kiss to the soft rise of Terese’s stomach, comfortable to remain settled between her legs for the time being. Above him she stretches, cat-like and content, bathed evenly in the clear, bright light of late-morning filtering in through the tall sash windows of her room.

“Why ask me? He’s _your_ lover.” Smirking, she settles herself back into the mountain of soft, oversized pillows she keeps on her bed—propped up on a bank of cloud-like cotton trimmed with lace resembling the frilly cakes his mother had always served.

Smiling into the gentle crease below her navel, he allowed himself a leisurely stroke of her thigh, travelling all the way up from her knee and back again.

“He’s _your_ husband.”

Her expression flickers for a moment, long enough for Viggo to catch the glimmer of sadness behind her eyes as she reaches down to thread one golden-nailed hand through his pale hair. _She still regrets it, then._

“Mm, a title which he seems to think has given him a reprieve from _tipping the velvet_.” Giving his hair a gentle tug, Terese bit her lip as she smiled down at him, unable to help herself from squirming just a little. However genuine her want for him, she wasn’t above using it. Then again, she always had been an accomplished player of the game, although her stratagem had flaws. He was one of them. Pity, if she’d have fed him a lie he may have taken it.

So Ariel was for Gaspard. Hardly a surprise, his status as a Chevalier had brought back some much needed respect to the Du Pont name, and indeed, had been the only reason that made a marriage with Terese even remotely feasible—a tie that had no doubt saved the line entirely. If Viggo knew Ariel as well as he supposed, then his loyalty would be resolute. At least, as far as a set of colours was concerned.

_But what of his personal loyalties?_

He met Terese’s flirtatious smile with a playful expression of his own, raising his eyebrows as if to mimic a concerned sort of surprise.

“He always was good at delegating.” Humming softly, he placed a kiss to the soft rise of her hip, earning a pleased little sigh for his trouble. “Some things are better left to bards than soldiers.”


	3. Nivia - Deserved Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copious amounts of Cole. Another of the main 6 from Reach of the Inquisition.  
> 801 words

“Maker, forgive me.’

A hand on cold marble, long fingered and elegant, palms worn rough—years with a blade, a purpose, trusted with respect and command—a name too heavy, like a stone in a sling.

‘Blessed Andraste, forgive me for my weakness.’

Tremble in the voice, handsome and fine—always called a blessing, such a handsome boy, not fit for the forge—the blade sings of home, hot coals and sweat. The father who supported without words. Wedding bands faded into working brass. Red tunic in the winter, worn thin at the elbows—never suited warm colours.

‘From sky-tearing peaks of the sacred mountain,’

Barracks cold, Chantry colder, ice in the wash basin—can’t remember the verse. Childish play on words—turn, Tern, turn—Sounds the same. No sympathy for tears. Splintered scrub-brush, blood on small hands, should have hit him harder. Blue tunic on Satinalia, smell of home fades after the second day.

‘To secret-steep’d roots of the ancient oak trees,’

Older, leaner, broader—still slender, tall, but not like the others—‘Swing it harder!’ knocked him down, don’t hear ‘weak’ again. Pages passed behind the Knight Captain’s back, illustration on the front, long hair, green eyes, smile lost to poor-man’s printing. Nivia, she fell in love, never read the rest. Keep catching eyes and smiles, elbows when the other’s notice—encouragement to envy when it’s easy. 

Knight Captain’s favourite, tipped for climbing, pleased but panicked. Catching eyes still, but unwanted and uneasy—hand on my thigh when called to Captain’s table, still but ever tracing ‘handsome boy’.  Still wearing blue.

‘A lonesome choir, I, song failing unanswered,’

The first draft burns, invigorating brightness, feel whole for the first time since mother’s arms. Belonging with a purpose, finally what I wanted. The mage who smiled most has a sister—been in Ostwick with her father, all trade and haughty airs, pretty in the fading sun. She doesn’t blush.

Wholeness doesn’t last, every ‘Sir’ feels like a pin prick. Only Eleanor lifts the lying feeling—the words with her are free, the press of kisses, even freer. Blue hydrangeas on her window, meant to ask in person, but the nerves were stifling. Boy, Sir, Young Man—All feels wrong. Married by Bloomingtide the year after.

‘Voice on the wind returning, answered no more.’

Unrest in Kirkwall, Prince gone missing— Too many harrowings—Didn’t the moon light used to be brighter? Unrest in the order, mages too quiet to be safe, but nothing happens. Never had to handle so many phylacteries. Don’t feel safe, don’t feel right—but it’s selfish. Enough to listen to desire demons. Haunts my nightmares.

‘Forgive me, but keep them safe.”

His face is pale, even shaded as it is by the shadows cast under the wide brim of his hat, his eyes are big, watery, far too blue to be comfortable. Nivia pushes back against the stone she’s been guarding, uncomfortable, but not about to give him whatever satisfaction it is he’s after.

“What are you talking about?” Despite herself, she glances up towards the makeshift tower she knows Raz is stationed in tonight. She wonders how much of that he heard, or if Yona is making his life difficult again. For once, she hopes for the latter.

“The verse. You tied it to things you wouldn’t forget so you could remember.” The boy blinked and tipped his head to the side, his hands folding up against his own chest as if holding something precious. “Because you feel like the Maker isn’t listening anymore, or that maybe he never did.”

Fixedly, Nivia made a point of staring out over the expanse of shifting sand, watching it ripple and dance in the cold breeze that accompanied the nights here.

“But you never tied anything to-”

“He wasn’t a mistake.” _Shit_. “Whatever mistakes I made, he wasn’t one of them. He-”

“Deserved better.” The boy finished. He was sitting on the slanting stone of the ramparts now. She wasn’t sure when he’d moved. “Yes. But he wanted you.”

Nivia felt as if she’d just been slapped.

“How dare you- How do you- What do you mean by-”

A tiny gasp, and somehow he was stood next to her again, saddened and apologetic.

“Wait, I got that wrong. Forget.”

* * *

“And where would you find a duck out here?” Raz’s deep voice echoed down to her, carrying the unmistakeable tone of bemusement that was common to anyone attempting to pass a watch with Yona. Poor bastard.

It had been a quiet watch. No darkspawn or bandits, only the occasional lone varghest to be seen, silhouetted against the thick smog of the sulphur pits. Nothing eventful. Maybe that was why her mind was wandering. Still, she couldn’t shake the image of a blue woollen tunic on Satinalia. A mother’s gift.


	4. Tevinter Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short and unsatisfying because it was a tough day and I got very tired by the end of it. A tiny snippet from a broader sci fi thing I want to write in full. I just wanted to describe Dorian. Because he's beautiful. +Mention of my Lavellan.  
> 449 words

His face was hidden under a hooded garment that scooped all the way down to his navel, and under that a full mesh face mask. Clearly though, the mask was purely in place to hide only the specifics of his identity, as his forearms remained bare, the soot black diamond patterning of his skin marking him out as Tevinter—although his were accentuated with the further addition of golden tattoos, filling the tan channels of skin like molten gold in a forge. Likewise, the characteristic shiny black of his nails was uncovered, despite the dark gloves he wore—fingerless by design. Unlike most Tevinter who wondered away from the Imperium’s range, this man clearly sought to advertise his race in such a celebrated fashion that it was shocking.

He wasn’t the first Tevinter Fáelan had encountered, you found them occasionally, holed up in stations throughout the Free Marches hawking whatever trade it was they specialised in. Still, up until now, every Vint he’d met had been cagey about their race, and whilst impossible to hide without going to some lengths, it had been clear that it was not to be brought up. Then again, coming from a Dalish perspective, that didn’t mean much. Vints might not be popular this side of Thedas, but they were at least allowed to arm their ships with more than base level shielding.

It wasn’t until the masked figure got closer that Fáelan noticed the gold tips to his nails, along with the complexity of his clothing, the fabric soft and expensive looking—as if designed to keep the wearer warm with minimal effort and maximum draping capability.

_Warmth... Now there was an odd little detail._

Although he didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon of any kind, Fáelan kept a hand on the hilt of one of his blades, watching his movements--  easy, practiced, like he’d been taught how to move to give everything he did a sense of effortlessness. Behind him, he both felt and heard Bull tense, ready for a fight. They’d known full well this was most likely a trap going into it, and so far nothing had changed to alleviate that suspicion.

“Relax. I’m here to give you information, not a dagger in the back.” His voice was velvety, cock-sure, and almost, Fáelan thought, a little smug. Changing his stance slightly to at least appear more trusting, Fáelan looked to where he supposed the stranger’s eyes to be and squared his shoulders.

“Alright, so give us the drop.”

Instead of producing a chip, or even a card of some kind, the stranger simply laughed, genuine and attractive.

“I’m afraid I only do oral. If that’s quite alright with you.”


	5. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renata Trevelyan/Cullen. Modern AU. Maroon 5 inspired stupidity.   
> 724 words

 ‘Sugar! Yes please!’

“Rena, no.”

‘I’m right here-’

“ _Rena_.”

Bracing his hands against the breakfast bar as the only thing that stood between him and his dangerously wiggly, pyjama clad girlfriend, Cullen watched her move about their kitchen with caution. He’d left himself cornered, he realised dully—she was between him and the door, and doubtless he was too tired to out run her anyway.

‘Yeah, you show me good loving-‘

Her lip sync was a little off, exaggerated and a touch too energetic as most of her attention was clearly on him, with her dancing in at a close second. If ‘dancing’ could be applied to this rather wiggly, early morning prop-based performance.

Fuck their CD player for having a USB port.

Brandishing a banana at him, Renata continued to gyrate her way round their kitchen, tossing her hair every so often for extra dramatic emphasis. He was smiling despite himself.

Putting down her improvised microphone and/or weapon of choice, she instead equipped herself with a box of cornflakes. Shaking them suggestively on every second beat, she began a slow, panther-like advance across the kitchen, crouched behind them like some kind of breakfast goblin. Straightening up, he tried to use his one advantage of height to prevent her from executing whatever attack she had planned. At least if it involved his face, he would be safely out of range. Unless she got on the breakfast bar. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Reaching his impromptu barricade, she deposited her parcel of cornflakes between his spread hands with a wink before proceeding to moonwalk her way towards the fridge. Or, well, no—‘Moonwalk’ was being generous, ‘reverse gyrate’ would have been more accurate. He suspected she wasn’t aiming for finesse of any kind.

‘Yes please! (Yes please!)’

Having momentarily hidden herself behind the fridge door to presumably retrieve the milk, she made a point of sticking her head round to mouth the lyrics at him; her eyebrows raising appropriately to the beat before ducking back round behind the door.

There was no escape from this, he knew, so instead he simply resigned himself to a sit and watch her progress as she sashayed, milk in hand, across the room to retrieve one of their overly colourful cereal bowls.

‘I want that red velvet’

Finally bringing the last two items to the breakfast bar, she caught eye contact again, placing her hands on the bar’s surface and pulling herself up onto her tip toes to be on level with him.

‘I want that sugar sweet’

He was forced to break away from her gaze briefly, as she withdrew a hither-to unnoticed spoon from the cleavage of her bra beneath her tank top. Booping him on the nose with it, she broke her composure for the first time, cracking a grin bright enough to light the room.

‘Don’t let nobody touch it, unless that somebody’s me’

Following it up with a brief kiss, she let herself back down onto the flats of her feet and backed away again, hips and shoulders swinging still, stopping only when her back hit the opposite counter.

‘I gotta be your man, there ain’t no other way’

She pointed at him accusingly, flipping her hair again. Raising his eyebrows in question, he idly picked up the still warm spoon from the counter top.

‘cause girl you’re hotter than a southern California day.’

He snorted, amused, and shook his head as she finally burst into laughter. Turning off the music, she bounced over to the bar again and pulled herself up on the bar, slapping his shoulder as he made to complain.

“What’s all this for, anyway?” Folding his arms on the counter top, he let her pour him out a bowl of cereal. She hummed dismissively, nudging the milk towards him so he could apply it himself.

“Do I need a reason?”

“ _Yes_.” She pouted at him momentarily before giving up without a fight.

“Alright, so maybe my mother might have backed me into a corner about arranging to meet a few select members of your family so she could-”

Cullen closed his eyes and sighed audibly, leaning his head against her side.

“Oh maker, please no.” Twisting a little awkwardly so as not to dislodge him, she reached round to pet his hair soothingly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. You’re worth it.”


	6. Runes... The perfect murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tiny extract from a Hogwarts au, largely consisting of my Lavellan and his surrounding family members, and my other half;s Trevelyn (Fannar). Bonus Dorian.

It had taken him until sixth year to really notice him, and that, he realised upon reflection, was fucking shameful. Perhaps ‘notice’ was the wrong word. He’d certainly seen Dorian around, heard his name in various shared classes over the years, probably even worked with him. Yet it had taken him all this time to really take a good look at him, to talk to him beyond the necessary and— _fuck, why did he have to look so fucking ridiculous in yellow? Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The NEWT class for potions was tiny, only six students had made the grade required and signed on at the beginning of the year. For the first time since his first few stumbling days, aged eleven, Fáelan found himself in a class with no one he knew. Four of his classmates _did_ seem to know each other, a group of girls, mostly Ravenclaws and a Slytherin who he was pretty sure had once written Abbán a misguided love letter. In their very first class of the year, it had been quickly established that they weren’t interested in intermingling, had promptly lain claim to a table, and never looked back.

Which left him and Dorian.

 _Dorian_.

“—Pavus?”

“Mm— What?” With a start, Fáelan looked round to find Abbán staring at him incredulously. To his right, he heard Krem snort into his casserole, clearly amused, as Abbán rolled his eyes and turned to face Fannar across the table.

“Told you. He’ll deny it, but I told you.”

Glancing back over his shoulder at the Ravenclaw table involuntarily, Fáelan felt his face begin to heat with embarrassment at being caught so easily. Even without turning around, he could make out Dorian across the Hall, partially hidden in a small knot of Ravenclaw sixth years. Despite his current predicament, he still felt his heart flutter as Dorian laughed at something a girl to his left had said.

Shooting Abbán a glare, he managed to mutter a quiet ‘Fuck off’ into his mash potatoes before the blush grew strong enough to be visible.

“Da’Mi, just a tip, but don’t fucking stare at the guy _as_ you deny it.” Nudging him with his elbow, Abbán shot Fannar a grin, apparently happy to drop it for a time in favour of an uninterrupted dinner. Thankful for the reprieve, Fáelan folded his arms on the table, toying with his fork as he tried to marshal his blush.

The whole topic of handsome Ravenclaw potion-makers was thankfully left alone for the rest of dinner, and didn’t get picked up again until later that evening in the common room.

“I think my professor is trying to kill me.” Groaning softly, Fannar let himself slump forward onto their usual table, laying his face over the thick book he’d been reading. “A slow death by runes, the perfect murder. _The bastard_.”

“Well could you please expire somewhere else, because your shit is spreading over into mine.” Giving Fannar’s text book a soft shove, Krem rolled his eyes and exchanged a glance with Fáelan. “Why don’t you copy off Cole? He’s faster.”

 “He’s so nice, I can’t.” Fannar allowed himself a dry sob. Shifting awkwardly, Krem glanced over at the boy in question, tucked away in his usual corner close to the fireplace. Instantly Fáelan felt out of place, as if he was intruding just by being witness to the subtle softness in Krem’s expression. Nudging his friend, Fáelan nodded in Cole’s direction and spoke softly, although not so soft as to prevent Fannar from overhearing.

“Are you ever going to do something about that? It’s been forever.” Krem looked uncomfortable, caught in an unfamiliar loop of conversation on a topic he wasn’t sure he could handle.

“Forever _and a half_.” Fannar chimed in, seemingly cured of his terminal case of runes. “You’ve been pinning after him since third year.” At Krem’s sudden look of panic, Fáelan nudged him sympathetically and added—

“For what it’s worth, I think he already knows.”

Krem looked panicked.

“Shit, he does?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. He picks up on things. Remember, with Abbán last year—” Fannar cut him off with a grimace.

“Could we not?” Fáelan offered up a shrug, pushing his neglected homework to the side so as to rest his elbows on the table. Running a hand back through his hair, he continued.

“My point is, he’s gentle. More or less. Abrupt truths aside, he’s compassionate enough not to outright blow you off.”

“Right,” Krem let out a deep sigh, screwing his face up and scrubbing at it with his palms. “I just—What if he’s not into men? Or he is, but, not men like me.”

“Then if he says anything, we tell him to fuck off.” Pulling back a chair, Abbán sat down and gave Krem a soft pat on the back.

“Where’ve you been?” Krem asked, momentarily derailed. Abbán waved him off with a dismissive scrunch of the nose.

“ _Prefect-ing_ , but that’s not important. It’s been _three years_. Act on it.” As Krem started to look miserable, Abbán shot a smug look at Fáelan before continuing in a more light hearted tone. “Besides, if Fáelan here beats you to his _Potions-Apollo_ before you’ve even spoken to Cole, you’ll—”

“ _Oh fuck off._ ”


	7. Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Tevinter Gold, semi-original scifi setting. Krem and Cole interaction.

Krem hadn’t been there when the Inquisitor and Bull had yanked the boy from whatever fresh hell kind of cable-cradle he’d been encased in. Bull had refused to describe it, his mouth pressing itself into an impossibly thin line as he shook his head. He had been there when they’d dragged him on board however, and that had been bad enough.

One tank of oxygen and an Inquisitor-assisted shower later, and he resembled something almost human. He remained uncomfortably pale, grey-ish almost— like a corpse Krem had once had the unfortunate experience of seeing after having been submerged in ice water for a day or two—although there was a sore kind of pinkness to his extremities which acted as the sole piece of evidence that he still had blood in his system. They’d found him a blanket alongside an assortment of clothing pulled from who knew where. The result being an outfit which had the overall effect of making him look like a rather forlorn dish rag. Krem felt a pang of almost parental pity as he noticed the boy’s bare ankles—too tall and too skinny for anything to be a proper fit.

They’d stationed him up front in the warm little industrial space below the bridge proper, watching the lights on the tower units flash on and off, perched on the remnants of an old drinks dispenser in place of a seat.  The faded visage of a rather tasteless male elven pinup was still discernible on the back. He seemed, to all intents and purposes, quite content to sit and watch the lights as they moved through their esoteric patterns of blues and yellows. Krem noticed he curled his toes into the hexagonal mesh of the floor every time a particular LED went through it’s sequence.

“Hey, uh… You alright?” He felt stupid asking, but then again, what else was there to say? ‘Hello, heard you were a bit tied up this morning, still it happens to the best of us, would you like some food?’ He didn’t so much as blink or acknowledge Krem’s presence in any way, simply kept watching the lights go through their electronic symphony of silence, curling and uncurling his toes to whatever rhythm it was they abided by.

“I, uh... Brought you something.” He continued, waving metal dish in a vaguely ineffectual gesture. “The others thought it’d be a good idea if you—“

“No.” Although the word had not been harsh or even aggressive, Krem had the distinct feeling it had still been an order. He paused, his sense of awkwardness having been given a temporary reprieve from making him fill the void with clumsy words.

“No. I’m not alright.” There was a sense of tension draining from the room, a tension Krem had not been aware of before it lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps it had all belonged to the strange young man, and he’d simply had the misfortune to walk into it.

“Yeah” His expression softening, Krem took the last few steps at a sedate pace, his boots making a pleasingly low metallic sound against the mesh as he walked. “I’d be more worried if you were.” Sighing, Krem pulled up heavy duty tool box and took a seat, dish still held limply in his right hand.

“You’re worried about me.” He spoke so softly that Krem might have missed it entirely if he hadn’t been only a few feet away. It wasn’t a question, nor was it strictly speaking a statement, more a realisation—as if the idea of being cared for by someone had never crossed his mind before.

Feeling uncomfortable again, Krem tried to find distraction in stabbing the spoon into the soft, bread-like substance of the meal pack Stitches had prepared, remembering too late that it wasn’t his to vent his anxiety into. Swearing under his breath, he put the dish down next to him and scrubbed at his face with his palms.

When he finally withdrew his face from his hands, no doubt looking twice as tired as he actually felt, it was only to discover a pair of watery blue eyes watching him intently. His eyes were large and bugged slightly, almost overly glossy, as if he’d only recently finished crying—an effect only strengthened by the pink tint that coloured his lower lids and waterline, making them look raw and pitiful. Krem felt his stomach drop sickeningly as the full reality of what this kid had been through clicked into place inside his head.

Clearing his throat, he spoke, trying his hardest not to let his voice crack too much.

“What’s your name? If you know, or, have one.” Cole gripped his blanket a little tighter, his toes curling back down into the mesh, out of sync with the lights. It could have been Krem’s imagination, but he felt almost as if he was being studied, flicked through like a book, scanned and skimmed for anything dangerous or incriminating.

“Cole. My name was… Cole.” He didn’t so much as blink. Krem, still feeling as if he were undergoing an examination, shifted uncomfortably, his copper coloured eyes trying to find something else to focus on besides Cole and failing miserably.

“Okay, Cole.” It was a soft name, he thought. It fitted him. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he continued. “My name’s Cremisius, but you can call me—“

“Krem.” Cole blinked at him—finally—but otherwise remained entirely still.

“Right…” A little creepy, but otherwise a good start. He must’ve just heard Skinner or someone calling him over on the floor above. Maybe Bull had told him.

“Why do you look like that?” Cole made to point at the soot-black diamond patterning that marked Krem’s skin all the way up past his elbows. Krem held up an arm, wiggling black-nailed fingers at him as he raised an eyebrow in question.

“This?” Cole nodded. “I’m a ‘Vint. We all look like this.” A vision of Dorian and his gold laced markings crossed Krem’s mind. Begrudgingly, he added “More or less.”


End file.
